


you seem familiar

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Drabble Collection, Drinking Games, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance, Tattoos, all right there's, angst? angst, gender neutral reader, platonic? romantic? who knows, some strong language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: A vampire and a witcher walk into a tattoo parlor; the rest of the character cast follows.





	1. forġietan, or to forget

**Author's Note:**

> To restate from [kill me twice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521672/chapters/31016259):  
> "self-indulgent fic written for me and that super specific reader insert audience ft. a vampire I haven't even met in the series yet
> 
> heck yeah
> 
> Reader has no set race or profession; the only assumption is that they are not a vampire"  
> \---  
> Tattooed Regis is absolutely inspired by stunning art from [wehavekookies on tumblr](http://wehavekookies.tumblr.com/). It's so gorgeous, I fall in love with their Regis art every goshdarn time.
> 
> I plan to write more chapters with other witcher characters when inspiration strikes! Feel free to leave a comment now and then :)

The vampire did not, contrary to popular rumors in the quiet Temerian town, accidentally wander into your life.

You first glimpse his silhouette outside the curtained store front: a tall gaunt figure standing next to a broad, familiar cut of muscle. You recognize the witcher’s ponytail and popped-up collar, not to mention his deep voice as he debates with his companion.

And whoever this stranger is, his voice is a rasp; it was like a whisper of autumn leaves against the concrete pavement. Always fleeting, always difficult to remember. He speaks stiffly and formally, despite the way his words suggest familiarity.

“Honestly, Geralt, while I appreciate the gesture--” you manage to hear, certain words drowned out by the noise of evening traffic, “--elsewhere, perhaps a library or a bookstore or this one textbook I’ve been most--”

The silver bell of the door finally rings; it’s barely audible thanks to the bickering. You pretend to be interested in one of your catalogs, penciling over a skull design. You look up as Geralt unceremoniously pushes his friend through the entrance. “Regis, just go and talk to them!” The witcher crosses his arms, standing in front of the door like some sort of guard. “I swear, you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

Regis is a gaunt, gray-haired man who looks too polite to argue in front of a stranger (you), but a small scowl crosses his face anyways. The expression seems unfamiliar and out-of-place, like his weathered face was more suited for wistful thinking. Unlike Geralt’s casual blouse and jacket, he wears a high-collared shirt with long sleeves and a subtle renaissance pattern.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Regis  casts his gaze around the tattoo parlor. The occasional design, often floral or alchemic-styled, catches his attention.

He seems reluctant to approach you, the lonely owner of this establishment. You lean across the counter and tilt your head to study the witcher and his gray friend. Both of their eyes dart down to watch the way you idly twist the black rings around your fingers; they seem attentive and aware of every small detail, whether by nature or nuture.

“Hi,” you say nonchalantly. “Can I help you two with something?”

The man called Regis glances over to Geralt, then sighs. “I’m sorry for being such a bother,” he says, a touch of annoyance in his tone, “but our mutual acquaintance insists that you might be of some assistance to me. As a tattoo artist.”

‘With… getting a tattoo?”

He offers a weary smile, one that shows the barest glimpse of sharp canines and none of a vampire’s bloodlust. “Not quite.”

You try not to let the surprise show on your face. Vampires were no strangers to this side of town, but you’d never had the privilege of having any of them as clients. What’s more surprising is that he’s a vampire who seems more at ease with the witcher, than with you. You muffle your curiosity and close the catalog. “Well, what else can I help with?”

“I understand it’s quite a vague request. With, ah, tracking down the origins of a unique design.” He rubs his hands together nervously. “As I told our friend, I might be able to find information elsewhere, say a library or a history book--”

“This is Regis, by the way,” Geralt interrupts, sidling up to the counter. “He wants to find the original tattoo artist.”

“Listen, Geralt, I would hate to bother--”

“You asked for help. This is the help I’m offering--”

“I was  _ drunk _ , I didn’t mean to bleed my heart out--”

You slide over the tattoo catalog and they halt their argument. “Feel free to look through the designs,” you say casually, then shrug. “It would be easier if you had an image of the art in question.” As you predicted, Geralt fixes his golden eyes on Regis expectantly; the vampire flickers under the stare, drawing his shoulders back a little more stiffly. He makes the mistake of looking at you. “Listen, Regis,” you say gently, “I’ve seen a lot of tattoos. I’d like to help. If you were embarrassed about the tattoo, you’ll find no judgement from me.”

Regis sighs again. Then he manages a small chuckle. “No. Rather, it pains me to even consider the state of mind I must have been, to forget who even gave me the tattoo.”

He starts to fold up his sleeves in a practiced, methodical manner; the fluid movement reminds you of a doctor or a surgeon (those on the brink of death would only have a glimpse of his youth immortalized in ink; Geralt would later testify his own experience). He sets his wrists on the counter. Most of the colors have faded, but the tattoo lines are still stark against his alabaster skin. “I remember almost all of the stories behind each one.”

Regis is right; art never goes without a story worth telling.

It seems surprising he would boast sleeves of tattoos; then again, he probably has centuries worth of opportunities. Regis has infinitely more tattoos than his witcher friend. All of them seem equally intimate.

A delicate bat’s wing slices across the left forearm; the alchemy symbol for salt, or life, hid next to a cluster of elven script; the luna moth that clings to its darker colors rests near the elbow; and a garden of roses and thorny leaves on his right arm demands admiration. There are so many designs, and they seem to stretch to his biceps and shoulders, hidden beneath the patterned cloth.

“The design in question is this one,” Regis says, pointing at a tattoo no larger than his thumb. It rests near the roses and draws very little attention to itself.

At first glance, it looks like a tree without leaves, reaching up and towards the sky. You blink, and suddenly see the hidden eye among the the crooked, bare branches. It stares with a black iris and a black pupil, separated by the thinnest bit of negative space.

“May I?” you ask, awestruck, and slowly reach for his arm.

The vampire raises his head and you realize that he, too, has shining black eyes. Something like hesitation splits across his face, then he nods. His skin is smooth to the touch, save for the raised blue-green veins that wind down the length of his arm. You fully expect him to be cold, due to his being a vampire, but he’s as warm as anyone else. 

You skim your hands over the rose garden, then the tree-eye. It’s evident that the same tattoo artist gave Regis most of his ink; you notice the slightest details that sets this delicate design apart from the others. “Whoever did this has very steady hands,” you comment, tilting your head. “And there’s something unique about symbolism.”

You can feel Regis study you intently, and slowly the tension and fear in his shoulders slowly melt away. “The symbolism?” he echoes, pressing you to explain.

“Trees are typically depicted with eyes on the bark, the trunk of their body. I’ve never seen it like this, where the eyes are heralded in the branches.” you say, now sliding your gaze down his arm to seek for clues. The rose garden and the moth belongs to one artist; another skillfully detailed the bat’s wing and elven script with a consistent depth to their lines and shadows.

Geralt studies the ink, too, though without expression. “He says that he remembers nothing. Not who did the ink, or when he got the tattoo. Not even  _ where _ .”

“Somewhere in Cintra, I believe,” Regis says defensively.

“That only narrows it down to the entire kingdom.” You flash a quick smile to show that you’re joking. “But perhaps the tree is native to one particular Cintra region or city. Is there anyone who can suggest when you first showed the tattoo?”

“Will that help?”

“I assume whoever tattooed you also came up with the design. They might still live in the area, if the tattoo was done recently.”

“That might prove challenging,” says the centuries-old vampire.

You grab a piece of paper to copy down the design. Geralt drifts elsewhere to the parlor, allowing you to converse more about the tattoo’s possible origins. A glance at his white hair reminds you of the old and faded wolf’s head inked on his scarred chest. He claimed it was a consequence of his upbringing; upon learning he was a witcher, you needed no more explanation.

Like most of your friends, he walked into your parlor while bearing ink of another artist. The only tattoo you’d ever done on Geralt’s battle-weary soul was a small swallow near his wrist pulse point; only you know whose body its twin design lies.

Regis unfolds his sleeves once you’ve finished the rough drawing, and he watches you pin it to your wall. You stand back and tap the pen against your lips thoughtfully. “It might help to consider the story behind the tattoo,” you say to Regis, turning back at him.

He frowns. “I cannot remember the reason.”

“True.” You interlace your fingers together. Regis’s black eyes track the movement, then linger on your callused hands and your rings. You pretend not to notice. “But sometimes the ink tells the story by itself. An eye usually has symbolism of wisdom, or divination. Based on its position, it suggests watching something or someone.”

“And the tree,” Regis muses, plucking at his sleeve, “Literary symbolisms of growth and protection.”

“Immortality, if it represents a tree of life.” There’s brief moment of suspicion as you flick your eyes at him, and see him already staring at you. Does he know that you’re aware of his monstrous nature? Does he care? Do you? Instead of breaching the terse subject, you say, “Can I ask why you want to search for the original artist?”

His black eyes are cool and amused (maybe Regis had wanted you to indulge in your curiosity).

“Call it a way to pass the time.” Regis twists his hands together. “I must apologize for my rudeness earlier. It seems deplorable to wake up with a tattoo, not knowing why or how I got it.”

You smile. “I accept your apology. And I don’t think there are ill intentions behind the art. You have beautiful tattoos.”

He blinks. “Thank you.”

“Plus, you’re one of the nicer strangers that Geralt has introduced to me over the years.” You arch an eyebrow at the approaching witcher, who offers the skeleton of a smile that doesn’t reach his strange eyes. He’s painfully aware of the company he keeps. 

“Thanks for your time,” Geralt says. Regis murmurs assent, his fingers resting against the counter like he wants to stay longer. The witcher heads towards the door, and says over his shoulder, “We’ll come back. Let you know.” This satisfies Regis, and with a quick goodbye, follows his friend.

“Good luck,” you tell them.


	2. forġietan, or to forget, pt II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i tagged this as 'platonic? romantic? who knows' ?
> 
> good times. this is definitely more of a romantic chapter with the one and only barber-surgeon

The neon lights outside of your window often paints your room in shades of pink or yellow. Tonight, it mourns the passing of a celebrity whose name you don’t know, and casts a melancholy blue across your walls. You rather like the color, and memorize it for your palette.

However, your attention is quickly drawn elsewhere, and by a vampire who once hesitated to know you. “When did you know?” Regis whispers, his eyes fluttering as you gently run your hands through his hair. “When did…” he trails off, kissing you with a sigh. “About Geralt?”

Thankfully, you grasp the question he’s been meaning to ask. “He told me about a vampire whose heart was broken decades ago,” you murmur against his thin lips, closing your own eyes as he wraps his arms around your waist. You shiver against his gaunt frame. “The witcher thought you were in desperate need of company.”

“In the shape of an artist.”

“Mmm. And he brought you to me. You ought to thank him.” Your fingers skate along his jugular, and his exposed collarbones. “Perhaps Geralt knew I would be fascinated with your tattoos. I always wondered about the ones on your back.”

“Ah, so this act of affection has been a ruse this whole time. First you mesmerize me,” Regis says, sneaking soft kisses between his phrases, “Enthrall me, undress me, just for a glimpse of my tattoos.”

“What can I say? You have excellent tastes.”

“Sure, sure.”

Shrouded by the midnight blue strobe light or the iris of a watching god, the vampire pulls the shirt over his head, revealing an expanse of pale skin and black ink. You can’t help but rear back and study the art that has decorated his body. Regis would rather forget his youth as a blood-drinking ripper, but you see the beauty of his naivety.

He had no limitations, no regrets about the roses that bloom in perpetuity, or the moth that reminds him of looking for a light,  _ his light _ , or the a gift that can’t be returned, the guarding tree and eye. Regis remains still as you shift out of his lap and gaze at his back.

During one fall evening, the scarf from his neck had slipped, and you caught a flash of ink on the nape of his neck. Now you run your fingers across the wings of a raven in mid-flight. Of course. What else, but a raven? It has a companion, a partner in crime-- another poses on his left shoulder, its proportions handled to skillfully curve with his spine and muscles.

Time failed to dull the beauty, or the solemness of the creatures.

Regis lets out a shaky sigh. His head hangs down, chin to chest. “A vampire I knew gave those to me.” He curls his hand over yours; the vampire breathes slowly and audibly, his breath wrought with sorrow. “We were very close once.”

“Whoever they were, they must have loved you,” you say softly.

“Do you know what they call a flock of ravens?” Regis croaks. “They call it ‘unkindness’, or a ‘conspiracy’.” You wonder who could have come up with such poetic epithets; and who could have condemned the ravens. As you admire the tattoos, something about their eyes is utterly familiar.

The balance of ink and negative space, found within the delicate space between the iris and the pupil remind you of the mysterious tree-eye tattoo. These two raven eyes pierce you. They tempt you to call them unkind. Perhaps the ravens were done by the same individual that Regis is currently pursuing, and you open your mouth to suggest so--

But the vampire turns round and presses a deft, sweet kiss on your lips. “No more talk of tattoos or youth,” he begs, “I just want to be with you.”

“Regis--”

“Please.” The silver-haired vampire cups your face in his large, cold hands, and he sets his forehead against yours. Regis is not the sort to replace arguments with romance, afraid to coax silence in such intimate moments. His black eyes are tired and sad, and of course, your heart breaks for him.

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” you whisper at last. You know and trust that he will still be by your side come dawn.

“Promise?”

“Absolutely.”

Satisfied that your conversations will cease for the time being, he pulls you down to the bedsheets, kissing you gently as if you could bruise under his mindful mouth. Emiel Regis loves the pulse in your neck, your wrists, your blood. Sometimes, he just closes his dark, haunting eyes, and holds you close.


	3. After-hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've wanted to write about lambert for a while

The phone rings.

You recognize that the drawling voice on the other end belongs to Lambert, the witcher with a buzzcut and a stick up his arse. He’d blown through the parlor, stole a drink from the backroom, and only returned to flirt with a sorceress who came for a touchup on her inked sigils.

All other meetings were overshadowed by his more amiable colleagues: Eskel, Coën, and Geralt. They were brothers-in-arms, and moreso acted like blood brothers.

“Do you have appointments for after-hours?”

“Not usually. It _ is _ called after-hours.”

“Are you willing to make an exception?”

You hesitate. “I didn’t know you even had the shop’s number.” 

“Looked you up. I want a tattoo. As soon as possible.”

His voice is laced with something other than sarcasm or mockery. It’s not unhinged; only hasty and impetuous. Then again, that’s Lambert on a typical day. “Are you sure?” you ask.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Witchers entice dangerous, lonely lifestyles. They find their home in the conviction of surprise laws, tournaments of bloodshed, and the pain of waking up and counting how many of their mates had survived the mutations. People spill their thoughts in your company, whether it’s the needles or character that draw out the tales.

Lambert is no exception.

_ Oh, but he’s a tragedy. _

Lambert feels everything so deeply: betrayal, loss, anger, satisfaction. He bottles it up just like one of his brewed potions, preferring to thrive on the image of a witcher, absent of emotion. No one could question him or his true intentions if they were too repulsed by his sour personality.

Even his confessions are laced with arsenic. Poisoning the idea that he could be soft, or kind, and destroying any sympathy anyone would once have for him. And it seems that those closest to him, the ones who have the best opportunity to actually see past his scowls-- few and far between, fading fast.

“Do you like anything? Hobbies, activities?”

“Drinking,” Lambert replies, shutting his cat eyes, as you work on his ink. “And fishing. The two activities don’t have to be exclusive.”

At least he finds comfort in some things.

Satisfied with the privacy assured in the shop, and your apparent willingness to listen, the witcher starts to talk of his own accord. Lambert lets the occasional, biting remark fly, and you let him complain about whatever or whoever bothers him at the moment. A particular wyvern, a penny pinched here and there, a painstaking hunt halfway across the continent for the sake of a cat--

“Who?” you interrupt.

“A cat,” Lambert repeats, then plows ahead about another topic. You're surprised that he still has a working voice by the time you’re finished.

The moment you starts to put your tools away, the witcher pulls out a flask. He sees your disapproving look and offers it to you. “Should I bother telling you that you shouldn’t drink alcohol for the next twenty-four hours?” you ask. Lambert shrugs. “Well, if you have any questions or concerns, just let me know.”

“It’s not my first tattoo,” he shoots, tapping the wolf’s head on his sternum.

“Great. And if you ever decide to get more, it won’t be the last time you’ll hear me say that.”

The witcher replaces his shirt, then vest, and heads over to the counter. “Ever gone fishing?” he asks casually.

“Once or twice. Why?”

“I’m looking for company. Just so happens that you’re the first and only person I’m asking.”

You hand him his change. “I’m flattered.”

The witcher wavers. He forces a scowl, then his last question: “Is that a yes?”

You remind yourself: Lambert has too many emotions, and no idea what to do with them. Here is an opportunity to know Lambert better. Half a day of quietly sitting in a boat, in the middle of a lake might be an ideal start. Maybe he’ll tell you more stories about his brothers, or his hazardous Path, or the reason behind his freshly inked tattoo (a cat’s skull on the inside of his right forearm).

_ Melitele, avert your eyes _ .

You might actually learn to like him.


	4. Never, Not Ever

“Never have I ever had to be carried to bed after drinking too much.”

“Fuck you,” Lambert says to Eskel, and takes a drink. “That happened once.”

“Once is enough,” the dark-haired witcher chuckles. However, Lambert relishes that several others at the table shared such an experience and looks pointedly at his fellow brother.

Dandelion is next. He scratches his chin thoughtfully, eyeing each person at the table carefully. The bard is notorious for taking his time; everyone knew that he probably had the most dirt. As much as the gallant, kind-hearted Dandelion loved to sing and talk, he had to listen and find his material somewhere. “Never have I ever…”

His cornflower blue eyes crinkle with a smile.

“...been made fun of having a ridiculously long name.”

Regis does his best to look offended. “I thought we would refrain from personal insults,” he remarks as he lifts his glass. His drink of choice is colored dark cherry, and is sweet to the scent.

Dandelion snorts. “That rule was abolished about six drinks ago.” He watches the vampire, then the sullen not-Nilfgaardian take a sip of their alcohol. The poet looks pleased that he is exempt from drinking (and when later questioned, rebuked all thought that he would ever be teased for his prestigious name), and turns to you expectedly.

“Never have I ever been tattooed in this very shop,” you suggest innocently.

The three witchers groan and finish the last of their drinks. So does fair-haired Milva, who winks at you, reminding you of the delicate fletched arrow inked on her collarbone. The taciturn Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, or better yet known as just Cahir, surreptitiously sips his drink. He has a black ring with vaguely Celtic influences tattooed on his right hand. That certain tattoo has a story that is yet to be heard.

The only players who didn’t drink were Dandelion and Emiel Regis.

The bard looks at the vampire, then you.

“I’m satisfied with what I have already,” Regis dryly answers the silent inquiry, without any incentive to discuss his sleeves of tattoos, or a back riddled with ravens. The others seem relatively satisfied, their own questions answered.

Milva tops off her drink. “Never have I ever been thrown off a horse.” This, too, sweeps the table with grumbles and resigned drinking. Geralt and Eskel start to bicker about which of their horses were more well-behaved. Milva would gladly join the argument, but she glances at you and your untouched drink. She arches an eyebrow. “No?”

“I would have to first ride a horse,” you admit.

“We will have to fix that promptly,” Milva declares, eyes sparkling.

“Never have I ever taken a philosophy class,” Cahir suggests once the squabbling ceases. Regis, Dandelion, and yourself lift your glasses in unison. The dark-haired man glances at the witchers and Milva in feigned shock. Of course, it wasn’t in their nature or upbringing to ever consider the nature of the universe; they just knew how to warp it and suit their violent needs.

“Oxenfurt?” Dandelion inquires to Cahir. “Surely, coming from a family like yours, you too must have had some schooling.”

“Yes, but I had a home tutor instead.” And there it is, another shred of Cahir’s past that you mentally note. You hardly know a thing about him, except he is a quiet, righteous man, and sometimes a raging warrior when the occasion rises. He and a few of the others had traveled together for a while-- _as a company_ , you recall one saying-- and evidently had left lasting bonds.

Cahir tilts his head. “Geralt…”

“I’m thinking,” the witcher mutters. He tucks a few strands of loose hair behind his ear, and then says, “Never have I ever been presumed dead to other people.”

“Bullshit,” Dandelion says as one by one, his friends share a knowing look and sip from their glasses. “All of you? I know Geralt for sure, and yeah, Regis, but-- Cahir? Milva? You too?”

“Don’t fret, Dandelion,” Eskel rumbles, wiping the back of his mouth. His crooked smile twists in humor. “It only happens once in a blue moon. Plus, mourning the great Dandelion should be a once-in-a-lifetime feat for both the deceased and the funeral attendees.”

The bard nonetheless looks perturbed by the idea or realization that he had mourned his friends several times over.

Regis taps his nails on the table. “Hmm… Never have I ever fallen asleep in a cemetery.”

“Do mausoleums count?” Geralt asks, pausing mid-sip.

“Absolutely.”

“Never,” Lambert proclaims after a few moments of furrowed thinking, “Never, never have I ever slept with someone whose name I didn’t know.”

Eskel slaps him on the back. “Finally, a question worth asking.” As drinks are topped off and glasses raise, the party finally realizes the two exempt to the scandal: Dandelion and yourself. You link your arm with Dandelion and sigh together at the fallacies of your friends.

“Honestly,” the bard remarks to the others, hugging you tightly, “Where are your manners? Or rather, where _were_ your manners?”

“Oh, save us the scolding,” Milva snaps. “Perhaps we knew at the moment, and we forgot.” Though as she says this, she glances dubiously at Geralt and Eskel. The third witcher is immune to the question but not from suspicion. After all, these questions typically stemmed from personal experiences.

And so the game continues. More wine bottles are seemingly conjured from thin air and quickly, voices and shrieks of laughter grow louder. The questions do not go beyond personal, intimate boundaries. Jibes and teases are not off the table. You eventually swap alcohol for water somewhere between one of Lambert’s scathing questions and Geralt’s questionably humorous remarks, and glance over to the other abstainers: the not-Nilfgaardian and the vampire.

“I hope you’re responsible for taking them home,” you say jokingly to the two, similar in gauntness and quiet reticence.

“Must we?” Cahir replies, a warm smile flickering across his pale face. He toys with the cuffs of his sleeves, and the mysterious tattooed ring around his finger. _One day,_ you decide, _one day he’ll trust you enough to admit a story._ But sometimes it’s just nice to relax and leave these curious thoughts for future ramblings.

Two and a half drinks later, someone’s hand curls rather possessively over your knee. That’s fine, because your head is nestled against their shoulder. Blame the alcohol, or the past-midnight company, but you can’t tell who it is past your half-closed eyes. Maybe it was Milva or Dandelion, who were seated on either side of you, or someone else who had slipped in an empty seat.

“We’ll finish the round,” Regis suggests, stifling a yawn of his own. “Then we’ll leave our resident artist to find some peace. Eskel, if you would do us the honors?”

_Never have I ever met a celebrity, and no, Dandelion doesn't count._

_Never have I ever cheated at gwent._

They see that you’re on the brink of passing out, so skip you, thankfully.

_Never have I ever performed drunk in front of an audience._

_Never have I ever skipped out on paying for a meal._ This one brought up a heated debate between the vampire and everyone else on what constituted as a meal.

_Never have I ever been mistaken for a grandparent._

_Never have I ever accidentally started a kitchen fire_ and _Never have I ever purposefully started a kitchen fire_ had interesting overlaps.

 _Never have I ever been_ fucked _over by destiny._

All of these players had forged their own path in life for better or for worse, and in the name of free will; they hate being condemned by prophecies. Was there enough time and reflection to compare good and bad luck, successful and failed ambitions? Would it be scarily easier to blame destiny? It might coax everyone to take a sip of their half-empty glasses.

Seems like an appropriate final question.

But for the first time in this game, no one drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read baptism of fire in one day and uhhhhh I have a lot of feelings


End file.
